


In Thought

by Danceshoes88



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danceshoes88/pseuds/Danceshoes88
Summary: Finnick is dead but soon finds he possesses a capability that will either strengthen his acceptance and tolerance of his new state or completely tear him apart. Is their a way he can still live, just from a spectator's point-of-view? Post-Mockingjay. All rights go to Suzanne Collins.
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted by me on fanfiction.net but I decided to change platforms after my discovery AO3. I hope you enjoy! I am going to try my best to update it as frequently as I can.

_**Prologue** _

_“To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.” ~J. K. Rowling._

There was a tug. Barely even prominent. Not like the ferocious jerking motion from the mutts in the Capitol. No, not like that at all. This one was different, pulling my body as if a rope had been tied around my waist and a slight yanking force was applied to the other end. Oddly enough though, it wasn't painful. In fact, I felt absolutely nothing but as with many things that fact didn't last long enough.

  
The scene around me shifted and I was no longer held captive by the blank environment of the dead. They say when you die that there is a light or perhaps some sort of slap of realization. However, I am here to tell you that none of that is true. Not even in the slightest bit. There is no revelation, no bright fluorescent glow, when you die there is just simply nothing except for a cold sort of emptiness that seems to gnaw at what's left of your being, a feeling in which you learn quite quickly to become accustomed to.

  
But at this particular moment, all that seemed to change.

  
It began to come back in parts—miniscule increments that would gradually appear—each one building onto the other. The first was color. Various sorts of grays and blues, all sorrowful and longing. Together they morphed, generating an astonishingly beautiful image of hope and loss, two things I was very much familiar with at the time.

  
Next, was sound. White noise that seemed to be utterly cacophonous and blaring dominated my ears in a sort of screech, shocking my body into a fervid state of terror. My hands rapidly flew to my head in a desperate attempt to halt the deafening audio, but its effect was inescapable. It may not have been so absolutely egregious in the past, in fact the sound is something that would have gone unnoticed, considered only to be a normal, daily aspect of life. But if life is taken out of that equation then it is a whole other situation entirely. Ever since my time ended, my body hadn't known any entity other than silence. When that state happens to change it is particularly impactful. However, that was not the most haunting side effect. That spot was reserved solely for the voices.

  
I can tell you now that sound and speech are two very diverse concepts. One can harm you but the other can completely tear you apart, leaving little to no sanity left for you to grasp. The words, the people in whom they belong to, all swirl maliciously inside your mind, suffocating your brain with noxious fumes of recollections and wishful thinking. Even though you are aware of your position, the abilities and capabilities you lack, you still possess a strong desire to try and fight death, continuing to reach for that anchor that will bring you back to those living you care about. That feeling, that urge of persistence and perseverance that dwells despite reality, the power of determination only increasing when loved ones are involved, is what eradicates all hope in the end. Though, no matter how frequently I remind myself of the inevitable fate, I still managed to fall prey to the sweet, enticing voice.

  
But on this specific occasion, it was different.

  
Instead of dissipating into my faint bubble of desperation, this time the speech stayed, racking the inside of my skull like a throbbing headache, morphing into a distant ringing present inside my ears. I felt my hands slap against the side of my raw cheek, the violent cupping sound not even able to drown out her voice. How? What? Questions racked my brain swirling in with the sweet laughter and cries that eventually formed words which then became complete comprehensible sentences. At that point the torture only continued. I began to decipher certain verbal fragments of my life, memories that were never to be forgotten but somehow, after the underground attack in the Capitol, managed to be pushed carelessly to the back of my mind. Whispered secrets under our breath on the shores of the evening sea, pointless jokes that many others would fail to understand but consisted greatly of my childhood days, helpless sobs and pleas that existed between us after my Games, the babble and seemingly meaningless speech after hers, and most of all, the miniscule yet meaningful phrases spoken into each others ears as we roamed the dark and militaristic halls of District Thirteen, were all featured.

  
Almost instinctively my eyelids dropped in an attempt to shut everything out, the noise suddenly becoming too much to bear. But the audio was intrepid and desired to make itself known no matter the pain it could be causing. Is this what it is like? To be caught in the whirlwind of your own insane mind? To be tormented by the past that you adore, but aren't in any way able to visit once more? Is this how she felt, as the vivid images of the arena dominated her thoughts?

  
My eyebrows furrowed further, clenching my eyes shut with an unknown vehement strength, as fresh tears welled, enforcing the acknowledgment of their existence through a gradually developing stinging, salty burn. If it was even possible, my brain began to focus on and perceive more specific sounds that were not as significant before. Rapid footsteps and zealous cries rang through the dank air, as another nameless face announced an arrival. Other voices joined the mix, but most were too vague to be recognized. I still refused to open my eyes. The joy and complacency that my body happened to sense was incongruous and utterly unwanted. I didn't need this. It only made things worse. Was there anyway it could possibly leave or vanish? I didn't know, I still don't. However, it was one particular phrase that enforced me to do the complete opposite of my former state.

  
_“Finnick!”_

  
There was another voice, but my complete attention was directed upon the scene my eyes deciphered as soon as they were deemed the freedom that allowed me to possess sight. A stark wave of nausea washed over me, and discomfort swiftly replaced any previous feeling that existed within my being. The tears that had only moments ago been contained by willpower now carved shimmering rivers into the blood-stained filth upon my cheeks. I don't recall falling, but only a sharp pain shooting up my knees as my body heaved forward, numb with passion and saturated with confusion. Before me, a thin framed girl clad in simple gray threads began bounding through a maze of dark, underground hallways as her unruly chestnut- hued tresses flailed behind her in a flash of curly strands. She ran wildly, navigating through passing citizens with a skill that could only be fueled by pure hope and desire, and somehow, I knew. She was chasing after a person who wouldn't return.

  
The sickening feeling worsened, as my stomach writhed and churned with a sort of vengeful intention. Despite all, bafflement and vulnerability alike, the pitiful words still managed to slip from my lips.

  
_“Oh, Annie.”_


	2. Chapter One

**_Chapter One_ **

_ “Grief is like the ocean, it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.” ~Vicki Harrison _

“Johanna! They’re back!  _ Finn’s  _ back!” Her fragile hands ecstatically grasp Johanna’s calloused fingers before she continues to dash through the random arrangement of stoic, stale-faced District Thirteen pedestrians. Johanna, despite having been left alone for seconds, recoils slightly at the action and only continues to follow in suit with an almost dramatic decrease in enthusiasm. 

I attempt at comprehension by examining the scene, searching for other familiar figures who might reveal the situation at hand. But all I see are the two. My line of vision is limited, only following the actions of Annie, and lacking the ability to branch out to other locations and minds.  _ Where’s Katniss? Peeta?  _ People fly by me like passing country scenery on a Capitol train, nameless figures that are in no way familiar. 

Eventually Annie arrives in the docking station on one of the lower levels of the underground district. A stark sense of cruel nostalgia pangs in my chest as I begin to realize just exactly what her motives are. A large aircraft, almost identical to the one that brought Squad 451 and its varying members to the partially rebel infested Capitol, sits perched upon the concrete slab of a station as President Coin and other significant figures alike gather around the dying engine. Its back doors descend, permitting the exit of a few high-ranked officials of the rebel army and some surviving members of my old “Star Squad”.

It is in this moment that all hope collapses. 

Forcing her way through the gradually collecting crowd, Annie wears an expression of pure joy as she approaches the craft, her demeanor absolutely opposite of my own. “Annie!” I screech, her name ripping through the air instinctively. “ _ Annie! _ ” My body, once desperate to see her again, grows exceedingly voracious as it craves to hear the sound of her voice in response to mine. Perhaps a simple reaction acknowledging my summoning. Just one more time before I am forced to forget the feeling forever. Because after all, that must be what this is–some kind of dream. Or, maybe I finally reached my supreme destination. A hell in where I am forced to witness the pain my loved ones are going through and the suffering I have caused them. Only to sit in silence, lacking any ability to respond to the images that play out before me. 

I can't bear to watch my wife as she examines each exiting passenger with a dwindling sense of zeal as the amount of people thins and none of them are the particular person in whom she is looking for. However, despite the fact, I find my eyes upon the depiction nonetheless. At this point Johanna has managed to catch up with her, acknowledging the situation far quicker than Annie does. She still stands there, almost glaring at the empty hovercraft. Johanna, even though aware of her instability attempts at placing a reassuring hand upon her shoulder, only for it to be abruptly shrugged off. 

“Peeta!” Annie calls, racing towards the war-torn baker’s son. Their eyes meet temporarily, all-knowing cerulean orbs weighed down by past experiences clashing with desperate and frantic green ones. 

He tries for a smile, which is uncharacteristic of him given the circumstances. “Hey Annie.” 

She doesn't smile back. 

“Where’s Finnick?” 

I feel bile rise in my throat, a seemingly impossible task for a dead man.  _ Why? Haven't I suffered enough?  _ I know the thought is harsh, selfish even, but my mind can't help but allow it to emerge. Instinctively, my hands find my face, my fingertips roughly caressing the various contours of my visage as a sort of distraction as my stomach tightens with an unnerving dread blatantly shared with my significant other. I want to close my eyes, annihilating the picture of loss before me. I want to slam my sore palms over my ears like she used to do, muffling every word that comes out of their mouths. But most of all I want to listen and watch, curiosity now my worst enemy, as she continues to speak and move with devastating beauty. 

Peeta chooses not to respond. “Where’s Finnick, Peeta?” she repeats insistently. Still silence. “Whatever it is, I can take it! I just want to know! Is he injured? Did he have to stay behind for some reason? It's okay, I can take it, I swear!” Knowing tears begin to well up in her eyes and mine, too, grow watery, as she is no longer the tiny feeble girl who only happened to survive the Games due to chance’s cruel dice. She is Annie Odair, a strong woman of experience and bravery, a side of her that remained hidden to anyone except those close, now for the world to see.  _ My sweet Annie,  _ I want to cry,  _ you have come so far.  _

__ Though he eventually cracks. “Annie,” Peeta’s expression becomes doleful, as if just having witnessed the effects of war for the first time. “Annie, Finnick’s not coming back, he...he died while helping us to safety.” He pauses, unsure of exactly what to expect. 

But she holds herself to her word, surprising even myself. “How? How did he, um, die?” Her small voice, slightly squeaks on the last word. “Did Snow kill him?” There is a vengeful aspect of her tone this time, and I guess as a result of this new experience, I am able to detect the rage that undoubtedly emanates from her body in vicious waves. 

Peeta shakes his head, damp blonde curls limply swaying with the motion. “No. He died an honest soldier, doing what he was asked to and more. You should be proud.” Peeta’s words sound awkward, rolling off his tongue in an unfamiliar fashion. But who can blame someone who has only received a myriad of death notices, and never himself had one to give? Until now, of course. 

Annie is quiet, her gaze focused at the floor, as her brain churns with a multitude of jumbled, confusing thoughts. It's a personal display I have witnessed on a surfeit of occasions, a series of hints that result in solitude and long hours of convincing regarding safety, and protection, and the stark fact that everything is okay now. There are no more Games. There is no more death. Everything is fine.  _ Look at me Annie, I promise, it will be alright.  _

__ But this time there isn't anyone. To hold her. To whisper reassuring truths into her ears when past truths have become lies. To coax her back from the noxious world she traps herself in, and keep her grounded in reality as its ghosts begin to test her sanity. 

“Thank you, Peeta.” she mumbles, her head raised to look him in the eye. She knows she can't break down, not here, not in front of everyone. Instead, Annie gradually rotates on her heel, a determined and forlorn frown stamped upon her lips, before approaching Johanna, who, for once in her life, appears sympathetic and sorrowful towards the struggles of someone other than herself. She extends her arms and the two embrace, an action that would shock any person who knew Johanna even the slightest bit. Liquid lead begins to pump through my veins, weighing down my heart with the guilt of my life’s expense, and only one thought comes to mind,  _ Take care of her, Johanna Mason, whatever you do, take care of her. _


End file.
